


Crying For the Moon

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, M/M, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you give someone an ultimatum, be prepared to live with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crying For the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> My belated entry for Waymeet's "Topsy-Turvy Challenge" (2006)

My world turned upside down today, and one of the causes of that imbalance sits calmly across the table from me, sipping a steaming cup of tea. He looks at me and smiles, a glistening bead of moisture caught on his sweetly up-curved lip.

I want to lick that drop of tea away. I want to nibble those pale lips until they are all red and swollen. I want to feed on his kisses, plunder that mouth until he screams my name...

My teacup rattles as I clumsily return it to its saucer.

“So, what do you say, Sam?” Frodo leans forward in his chair, intense blue eyes locked firmly on me. “It's a perfect solution, isn't it? You'll bring Rosie here to live after you've wed. There's plenty of room to spare. Best of all, you won't have to worry about me being here on my own, and I--”

 _Whose bed will I sleep in?_ The question trembles on my tongue. _Can I have a say in that?_ I bite down hard on a gooseberry tart to choke back the words and mumble, “I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” around a mouthful of pastry.

“I beg your pardon?” Frodo looks obviously puzzled and more than a bit hurt that I would reject his generous offer. “It's not like you'll be unwanted guests here...”

Obviously he's put a lot of thought into the matter. And from a purely practical point of view, his plan makes perfect sense. Bag End is far too large to house but a single hobbit, it was meant to be filled to overflowing with children. I reckon their laughter would drive old ghosts away in no time flat. Maybe even chase Mr. Frodo's nightmares away. So, he is right. I should marry Rosie Cotton. Make this our home. Raise a family. It's past time that I lived a normal hobbit life. The Gaffer has spoken out loud and clear on that particular topic any number of times since we 'returned from away'.

But I don't feel normal. I don't want normal. I want... I want...

That dratted bead of tea slides a little further down. Frodo's quick, pink tongue darts out to whisk it away. Merciful Lady! How could I live under the same roof with such temptation day after endless day and not act upon it?

And how could I live without him?

I couldn't! I won't! But it seems that I must.

“This will be your home,” Frodo continues determinedly. “Rosie can redecorate or do whatever she wants to make the place hers. Whatever Rosie wants, Sam.”

Whatever Rosie wants...

Ah, well, and that's the thing, now isn't it, dear Master? For now we come to the other cause of my tizzy: Rosie. Darling Rosie has decided it's past time that I turn in my notice and move on in life from my role as your servant. _That_ is what Rosie wants. As for what _I_ want... Well, I think she worked that out before I did.

Rosie's not a stupid hobbit. She knows competition when she sees it, even if that competition doesn't happen to wear a skirt. And she's 'through with all of that nonsense' – or so she stated most emphatically just this morning as we chatted down by the gate. She has her eye on a piece of land a few furlongs north of her father's holdings. “We can make a fresh start there', she giggled excitedly. “Put down roots. You've wasted enough time, Samwise.”

Yes, I suppose I have. No need for gratitude, though, Rosie. All I did was keep my master alive and help save the world. Never mind that I turned my life all topsy-turvy in the process, I inconvenienced you. How thoughtless of me! You silly, selfish lass! You don't know what I've been through... the things I've seen...

Only Frodo knows. Only Frodo understands.

The Quest flung us together and so perfect was our fit that now one can scarcely move without the other. He is my world. Like the moon, I revolve around him. Around and around we circle one another, in a spiritually connected dance as ancient as the stars that light the sky. Motion and counter-motion. The rhythms of his life have become mine: his highs and lows, his hopes and fears. In sickness and in health I have stood beside him. I have faced dangers beyond belief, walked to Death's very door... and for his sake I would do it all over again.

From the moment I first saw him, all those many years ago, I have loved him with all my heart and soul. He is the kindest, most considerate of hobbits, a friend unlike any I could ever have imagined. And for years that was enough. I could live off smiles and his quiet thanks. But now... ah, now... he is also my heart's desire.

And that can never be.

I know it. I tell myself a hundred times a day that I'm the biggest ninnyhammer that ever set foot in the Shire. Crying for the moon never brought it to your door.

But knowing and believing are two very different things.

“Sam...” Frodo places a warm hand on mine, and I fight in vain to keep the tears from rolling down my face. “Sam, what's bothering you?”

“E-everyone is tellin' me what it is that I should do,” I manage finally. “W-what I should think, h-how I should feel...”

Frodo's slender hand tightens its hold and I feel his face duck down, trying to better read mine, but I lower my head so I don't have to look him in the eye. If I look -- if I look, then there might not be a careful, edited recounting of my feelings. They might spill out like the Brandywine overflows its banks in the spring. They might wash all that I have away. And then where would I be, without even those crumbs of hope to nourish me?

“And what do you think?” Frodo asks carefully, after a long pregnant pause.

“I think the world is a much bigger place than we thought it could ever be,” I answer slowly. “I think that the time we have is too short, too precious, to waste.”

“Yes,” Frodo nods. Absentmindedly, his thumb caresses my wrist. “And?”

“Rosie has our life all mapped out,” I say numbly. “That life doesn't include you.”

“What?” Frodo's already pallid face drains of all colour.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo. Rosie wants me all to herself. The Gaffer wants more grandchildren. Hobbiton wants solid, respectable citizens, not adventurers, not free thinkers. What I want doesn't seem to matter much in the grand scheme of things.”

“I understand,” he says sadly, and I feel my poor heart break clean in two at the look of desolation – and, worse yet, resignation -- that sweeps across his face. “Of course, you must do what's right, Sam, what's expected.”

“No matter what I want... no matter how I feel...”

“How _do_ you feel, Sam?” he asks earnestly.

“Torn clean in two,” I state flatly, and he flinches at the bitterness of my tone. “The old Samwise Gamgee would meekly fall in line and live the life all them other folks ordered. But I'm not the same hobbit as I was a year ago. I think... I think I like who I am now much better.”

“I see...”

And now I can look him in the eye. Now I am on familiar, well-trodden ground.

“But that doesn't mean I want to go changing the way things are. That part of my life suits me just fine. I like looking after your garden, Mr. Frodo. I like looking after you. I like hearing you read the old tales in the evening. I like being here for you when the bad dreams come. That's all as it should be: you the Master of Bag End, me your gardener...

“Oh,” Frodo laughs shallowly. “And here I thought you were proposing a revolution. A new world order.”

I turn my hand over to capture his. “I am,” I murmur quietly.

“I-I don't understand. What do you mean, Sam? What do you want?”

And suddenly I know that crumbs of hope will never be enough to satisfy me. That the floodwaters of all that I feel cannot be denied or I will drown beneath the weight of my own tears.

“You,” I whisper as I cup his face between my trembling hands. “I want you.”

His lips are soft; he tastes like tea and strawberry jam, cinnamon and pipeweed. As his mouth opens on a little “oh” of surprise, I deepen the kiss, putting all the love I feel into the only moment I will likely ever have to convince him that this is truly what I want, that this is right, that this is what was meant to be.

And as his arms creep around my neck and he melts up against me, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, my master is a rebel too.


End file.
